


(& maybe i had miles to drive) a thousand kisses deep

by gratefulnblissful (possibilist)



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, this is truly so much
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:35:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23690047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/possibilist/pseuds/gratefulnblissful
Summary: tobin & christen; 100 kisses—when you kiss, it lights a fire in your belly, something that you realize will keep you warm for years and years. it isn’t fireworks, or earthquakes. when you kiss her it feels like every single good prayer you had been brave enough to whisper has been answered; it feels like god is in you, god is in her.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 67
Kudos: 342





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> everything is. so much rn. it's so weird writing irl people; obviously this is F I C T I O N. but fun, hopefully. like 94/100 of these are gonna be soft
> 
> this is only part 1—i'll probably post 25 at a time bc whew. a project. everything should be mostly chronological so these are like 2010-2015 :)

_[the green in your eyes like the leaves in the summer / makes me love you even more]_

/

1

the first time you kiss her the room is spinning. you’re in kelley o’hara’s kitchen in los angeles, this dingy little apartment she’s renting for the month. you’re drunk, and christen’s drunk, and you’re both young and you’ve kissed lots of girls and you’ve met christen just a few times. you understand that she’s beautiful, have understood for years—but it’s different when she’s here, laughing at some dumb joke some boy said, touching the inside of his arm.

she’s not yours, never has been anything close, but you introduce yourself and she rolls her eyes because she’s known you for a while, but you smile and she smiles, and then she’s complaining, slurring a little and leaning close to you—telling you that her goal in the ncaa final wasn’t offside and you won by a fluke; that she’s still a little bitter, and you’re pretty sure she’s kidding but there’s a little pain in her eyes and you really don’t like the way your chest aches at it.

you’re drunk, and she’s beautiful and close and young—and so are you—so you square up and grin— ‘wanna kiss and make up?’

her brows knit together for a moment, and your stomach bottoms out in mortification, but then she seems to settle into herself a little. she leans forward and her left hand rests at your hip and she kisses you, right there, just like that.

she tastes like vodka cranberry and the room spins and you touch the back of her neck, beneath her braids.

you kiss for a while, until kelley comes in _whooping_ in drunk joy when she sees you. you break apart, and christen laughs, and it’s nothing; she’s your friend, and it’s nothing.

/

2

the second time: it’s quick; a hello on the cheek when you get to the bar after a day at camp. she smells like coconut and vanilla and lavender and her lips are soft. you think about it for a long time: the warmth, even as the night grows cold.

/

3

you find out for sure that christen likes girls over breakfast at camp one day, because she says it, just like that—‘yeah, i like girls’—while you’re at the same table as pinoe and ash and they all start to laugh, declare it ‘the gay table’ even as christen tries to say that you should expand your label to be more inclusive; this only makes pinoe laugh harder and her smile is big and bright. they shoo away alex when she comes and tries to sit next to you, causing even _more_ laughter. you feel some of the long-ago shame bubble up inside you, but you smile too, blame it on the lack of coffee, feel out of place and confused and not enough—not proud enough, not holy enough, all at once. pinoe kisses christen’s cheek dramatically and so she laughs and kisses yours, and it doesn’t solve anything; it isn’t a prayer of absolution, isn’t falling in love so big you don’t care—but it makes you laugh. you lean over and kiss ash’s cheek the same way and she grins, wraps an arm around your shoulders. ‘thanks, toby,’ she says, and you roll your eyes at the nickname and settle into yourself a little more, pinoe’s proud grin and christen’s relaxed shoulders easing the ache in your chest.

/

4

you win a gold medal; your second, which seems unbelievable until christen hugs you tight. you know it had hurt her to be an alternate, that it hadn’t made sense—to you either, because she’s ruthless and elegant and mindblowingly fast. but her smile is so big, her eyes crinkled in joy; she kisses your collarbone, a little randomly, glancing, as people cheer all around you all over again. your medal is heavy; real.

/

5

it’s freezing in paris, even worse in sweden. you’ve been talking more, texting all day and skyping at night. it’s easy to be around her, even virtually: she’s so calm, so kind, so certain about things. you walk out onto your balcony when you see it’s snowing, delighted. it’s late, and shirley is asleep in your bed, and christen is your friend. she’s beautiful, and she’s queer, and you love her—sure. your girlfriend is in your bed and christen is in another country—but she walks outside, the small patio at the back of her little house in sweden, to be in the snow with you; even though she’s freezing, even though she must hate it.

‘it’s beautiful,’ you say, and you mean the hush of the city and the dimmed lights and the warmth from the cracked door; you think you also mean her.

‘yeah,’ she says. ‘i’ll admit it.’

you laugh. ‘controversial words.’

she rolls her eyes, then you see her check the screen of her computer. ‘shit,’ she says, ‘sorry, tobes. my computer’s on 2% battery. i don’t know why, i think i need to take it into the store.’

‘that’s okay,’ you say. ‘it’s late anyway.’

she frowns. ‘sorry.’

‘chris,’ you say, try to hate how tender you feel— ‘it’s really okay. please don’t apologize.’

she sighs. ‘it’s just nice to talk to you, is all.’

‘yeah,’ you say. ‘but we have tomorrow. and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after th—‘

‘okay, okay,’ she says, laughing. ‘talk to you tomorrow, then.’

‘alright,’ you say, take one last look at her, snowflakes catching on her curls, wild and soft. ‘sweet dreams. love you, chris.’

she grins, brings her hand to her mouth and blows you a kiss. ‘love you too tobin. sleep well.’

you end the call immediately, try to ignore the furious beat of your heart or how cold your hands are. you close your computer, slide into bed behind your girlfriend.

‘everything okay?’ she asks, mostly asleep.

‘yeah,’ you tell her, willing it to be true; willing yourself to be honest, and faithful, and brave. ‘everything’s okay.’

/

6

she’s one of your best friends, by now. maybe your _best_ friend, if you’re being honest, sometimes; you have alex and allie and cheney and arod and kelley and you have your sisters, but they’re usually loud and full of energy and they always want to _do things_.

which is fine, usually you love that and it’s always been simple for you to go with the flow, but being with christen, talking to her about everything, quiet in the middle of the night when you’ve both gotten to camp and you’re jetlagged and always convincing her to sneak out to the nearest field so you can play together; barefoot with one shitty stadium light flickering over the goal—it feels a little like church, or praying, or watching the sunrise over the ocean.

‘how’s sweden?’ you ask, trying to take stock of her, this new person that you relearn every few months, the same person you’ve known for years.

she frowns; it’s late. ‘good.’

‘you look thrilled about it.’

she rolls her eyes, lines up and hits an absolute _brace_ into the upper left 90. ‘it’s just—i felt so settled there. renewed. like, no one can watch me play, or judge me, and it’s just football. but when i come back to camps, i just—‘ she shrugs, hits another perfect ball into the back of the net. ‘do you ever worry you’re not good enough?’

‘at soccer?’ you ask, fish the balls out from the net and start juggling one. ’no.’

she makes a little noise of disbelief.

‘but at _literally_ everything else?’ you flick the ball up, catch it on the back of your neck, let it roll down your arm until you catch it on your foot again. ‘yeah. i’m pretty sure i’m only good at soccer.’

‘that’s not true at all,’ christen says, quickly, her shoulders straightening.

you’re not self conscious; you’re too tired and you know her too well, but you’re a little embarrassed. ‘okay, well,’ you say, ‘you’re genuinely smart, like actually, and you’re good with people even though you claim to not like them, and you’re—‘

you’re flustered; you fumble the ball, and christen looks a little startled.

‘what?’

‘you’re just—‘ you sigh, plop down next to where christen has sat by the goalpost; your heart is pounding in your chest but you just grin, roll the ball between her hands. ‘you have to know you’re beautiful, right? like, really actual model beautiful.’

‘oh.’

‘there’s no way all the boys in sweden don’t tell you that all the time.’

she shoves your shoulder.

‘you must love a whole country of lanky blonde extremely white people.’

she laughs and finally looks at you.

‘the girls there aren’t half bad,’ she says, and a thrill of something like jealousy—that you will _never_ allow yourself to name as such—shoots down your spine, even though you have no right.

‘you’re killin me, chris.’

she laughs, takes your hand and laces your fingers together, lying back in the grass.

‘thanks for coming with me tonight.’

‘i was gonna come here anyway,’ you say, because she’s so soft and so close.

‘okay.’

you’re sleep deprived and when the world is just football and christen, everything makes sense; it makes you feel brave: ‘sometimes it feels like what i want most in the world, when i see you, is to make sure you’re happy.’

‘tobin.’

you shrug. ‘i’ve just always felt like that. i don’t know why. you’re just—you’re you, chris. you deserve to be happy.’ she looks like she’s about to start crying so you squeeze her hand with a little laugh. ‘i’ve been bad at my job because you’re clearly miserable frequently,’ you say, then stand up, but it’s teasing and she throws the ball at you and you scream like you’re terrified of it, taking off across the field—just to make her laugh.

eventually, you walk back to the hotel together, bone tired and finally ready to sleep. you walk her to her room, then say, ‘i’m gonna keep trying,’ when she wraps you in a hug, kisses your shoulder. ‘one day, i’m gonna get it right.’

she swallows, doesn’t break your embrace, whispers, ‘one day i think you will.’

you smile, back up and do a stupid little spin trick down the hall before turning back to her. ‘night, chris.’

‘sleep well, tobin.’

/

7

you wake up early one morning to pee and you hear her crying. you don’t ask what it’s about: moving back to the states, camp, someone she likes—you know she has anxiety and depression because she’s told you that and, so, you don’t ask.

you’re half asleep but you just get into bed behind her, hesitantly, until she grabs your arm and pulls you toward her, snuggles back against your chest.

it’s instinct, maybe, or fate or love or god—the way she fits. you squeeze your eyes shut and breathe deeply, in your nose for a count of seven; hold it for four; let it out through your mouth for eight, just like she’d taught you. eventually her ragged breaths even out, sync up with yours. you’re both in shorts and t-shirts, and you try not to pay attention to how soft the skin of her legs is, how her shirt has ridden up and you can feel the jut of her hip against your hand.

you don’t say anything, just wait until her breathing has evened out and then kiss the back of her neck, just once: penance and worship. she doesn’t stir.

/

8

it’s her first time visiting you in portand and you had _agonized_ over the furniture filling your apartment. her place in chicago is so nice: grown up, clean, bright and full of soft touches of character; you’ve never known how to be like that. you’d facetimed your sister from west elm and alex had helped you set everything up where she thought it made sense. it’s kind of sparse but it’s the first time you’ve ever had a home that’s _just_ yours that you think you’re really going to stay in.

it’s not home yet, not really, but christen smiles so wide when she sees it, and her fingers flit over the spines of a few books you have—mostly ones she’s told you to read—and then your camera; she picks up a candle and smells it, closes her eyes.

you love your girlfriend, you do. it’s just, more and more, you think you love christen too. you always have, from the moment you met through kelley, but it’s changing, growing deeper, more rooted in _want_ and dreams and sometimes when you touch your girlfriend you think of green eyes and it hollows you out in the middle.

‘this is beautiful, tobes.’

‘yeah?’ you check, your voice rough.

she kisses the tip of your nose, grinning, a silly, happy gesture. ‘yeah.’

‘a home, you think?’

she puts the candle down, squeezes your arm. ‘yeah,’ she says. ‘i do.’

/

9

absentmindedly, you kiss the inside of her wrist when she sits down beside you on her couch and offers you the bowl of popcorn.

/

10

‘i can’t believe i let you talk me into this,’ she grumbles, sitting on the exam room table, holding an ice pack to her forehead.

‘it’s new york city!’ you argue, trying your hardest not to laugh at her extreme pout. ‘it’s _tradition_.’

she rolls her eyes, then groans. ‘i can’t believe i could have a concussion. we spend our whole careers trying to avoid them and here i am, in an er because i went ice skating with you, even when i _knew_ it was a bad idea.’

‘i’m sorry, chris.’

‘you don’t _look_ very sorry.’

you’re sure you don’t, because she’s so cute, still bundled in her scarf despite the fact that you’re inside.

she sighs, about to go on another rant because she’s cranky and definitely in pain; there’s a purple bruise swelling just above her eyebrow. but then the doctor comes in, talks you through the steps of what to look out for to make sure she doesn’t have any complications; her x ray is fine and she doesn’t have any symptoms of concussion, but you just wanted to be sure.

you take care of the discharge papers and make your way back to your hotel. she’s sleepy in the cab, from the cold and from the small amount of pain medication they’d given her; you wrap your arm around her and she rests her head against your shoulder. you lean down and kiss her bruise, very, very gently, and she takes your hand.

/

_[i thought that i was dreaming when you said you loved me / it’s quite all right to hate me now / we both know that deep down the feeling’s still, deep down it’s good]_

/

11

it takes you out, the way her eyes are red-rimmed from crying and how you feel like you can’t breathe.

‘i don’t want to ruin our friendship,’ she says, quietly.

but you’re still a little stuck. ‘you love me?’

she lets a big breath out, slowly, then nods.

‘ _me_?’

‘yes.’

‘i have a girlfriend.’

her jaw clenches and her face gets stormy before she smooths it over, clearly something that you’ve missed her do over the past months, because apparently she’s had feelings for you for a while and you had no idea.

‘i’m sorry, chris, i just—‘

she nods. ‘yeah.’

you love her more; you love her more than anything, sometimes, you think: football and god and family and somehow she’s all of them, all wrapped up into one. ‘i’m _sorry_.’

she’s crying now, in front of you, and it breaks your heart; you’re heading into a world cup this year, and you have a girlfriend, and you never thought christen— _christen press_ —would think of you like this.

you want to say it back: _i love you too, i love you so much, i’ve been in love with you since the moment we met_ , but you can’t. not now. not like this.

you hug her to you, even though she tries to resist for a split second. you feel one sob wreck its way through her frame and you have never wanted to kiss anyone as badly as you want to kiss her; you brush your lips over the corner of her mouth and it only makes her cry harder.

‘i gotta go,’ she gets out, roughly, and you know she’s not yours to ask to stay.

/

12

things aren’t the same, after that; how could they be? you feel so awkward and so guilty, all the time. you pray about it, and one day you end up falling asleep in the same bed, even though you’re not supposed to: an unspoken rule now.

christen is up watching an episode of grey’s anatomy and you put your head in her lap without thinking, like you’ve done for years now. she cards her fingers through your hair and you’re falling asleep almost immediately; it always works like this, and she always knows when you need it. she kisses your forehead and you think _this, this is all i want_ as you fall asleep.

/

13

your chest _burns_ when you see christen post a picture on instagram of her and her friend; her high school boyfriend, and she’s smiling at him like—

you take a deep breath and scrunch your eyes closed and try not to feel it—

she’s smiling at him like she smiles at you.

she texts you, a little while later: _how are you? miss you_

you’re being petty and immature and unfair but you can’t help it: _fine. have a good time with nima._ you send back.

you see the three little bubbles pop up a few times, then nothing. you grant her this.

a few days later she kisses you on the cheek when she says hello at camp. she’s a grown woman and she is not yours.

‘hey, chris,’ you say, gently, and she smiles, and it feels like all is forgiven.

/

14

you dream of her in flashes: her fingernails down your back; her eyes skewed shut; the tremble of her thighs; kissing down her stomach and the way she’d taste: like the ocean, like july—endless.

/

15

you break up with your girlfriend and she cries and you feel gutted; you _know_ you haven’t cheated physically but you’re pretty sure you’ve been cheating emotionally the entire time, in some ways at least. when you explain everything to shirley it feels like the most cowardly you’ve ever been.

and then you room with christen, with her neurotically neat suitcase and her tiny sleep shorts and her news podcasts and her coconut body oil—and you avoid really thinking about all of these things because you have a world cup to win.

but then: you _do_ , and it feels like the sky breaks open when the final whistle blows. in the chaos of the locker room later, she laces your fingers, kisses the top of your hand.

/

16

it’s your 100th cap, and she can tell you’re nervous before the game because you can’t stop fidgeting and it’s usually bad—it’s always been hard for you to sit still—but then you blurt out, ‘do you want to come to my celebration dinner?’

she smiles, squeezes your hand, kisses your shoulder. ‘your family loves me more than you, you know.’

you laugh. ‘oh, i know.’

‘i’d love to come, tobin.’

‘cool,’ you say, squeeze her hand back.

‘and,’ she says, smiles, ‘i’m really proud of you.’

you blush and look away and it’s _insane_ to you that you’ve played for this team 100 times; the biggest dream come true, because you love football and it’s what you’ve always wanted.

you realize, with a lot of clarity in that moment—now, maybe, you want something more.

/

_[i remember the time you told me / love is touching souls / well surely you touched mine / i could drink a case of you, darling / & i would still be on my feet]_

/

17

the dogs run off a little near the outcropping of a small patch of grass along the dirt path, and you’re trying not to breathe hard after running up the switchback, because christen doesn’t seem winded at all, but she turns to you with a grin.

‘i’m one of the best football players in the world,’ you argue feebly.

‘you’re slow,’ she says, very matter of fact.

‘no,’ you say, put your arms above your head to prevent a side stitch. ‘you’re just _fast_.’

she grins. ‘excuse me, i need that on video.’

‘no chance in hell, christen.’

she laughs delightedly, and your heart swells because _you_ did that; _you_ made her happy.

‘i’ll never admit defeat.’

she rolls her eyes and bumps your hip, then stays close to you. you’d spent the last few days in los angeles, there’s a victory tour game coming up and your friends are here, but she’d stayed with her parents and asked you if you wanted to and you’d said yes. you’d slept in her childhood bedroom in her childhood bed, tangled together each morning, and snuck onto the roof with a very expensive bottle of wine she’d taken from her parents’ wine fridge and you feel young, all over again.

you lean into her further, and she’s just in a sports bra and leggings and you wish you’d just worn a sports bra too instead of the tshirt that you’re sweating through.

christen turns to face you, and she’s so close, and her grin changes into a soft, small smile, one only for you; one you’ve known for years now. the sun is setting over the ocean below the cliffs, bursts of orange and gold, turning the teal water more colors than you would’ve imagined. she told you this spot in palos verdes was her favorite before you left on your run; you try to study everything about her in that moment, wanting to remember it all: the slope of her shoulders, how her skin is bathed in gold, how _green_ her eyes are with the water behind, the soft babyhairs that fight their way out of her ponytail, the freckles across her nose.

you love her and you square your shoulders and she steps closer to you, just a tiny bit, and her eyes flit down to your mouth. you bring a hand, slowly, so she could back away, to cup her jaw, and she lets out a shaky breath, but then she asks, ‘can i kiss you?’ so quietly, a whisper ghost between you.

‘yeah,’ you whisper back, barely a breath. you forget, for a moment, all the hurt, all the shame: coming out to your parents; not having a church to go to; the way that, years ago, someone had yelled terrible words at you when you were just walking down the street holding a girl’s hand.

when you kiss, it lights a fire in your belly, something that you realize will keep you warm for years and years. it isn’t fireworks, or earthquakes. you feel her bite your bottom lip with her teeth, turn your head a little more so you can kiss her deeper, slide your hands into her sweaty hair while hers work their way down your shoulders to the small of your back.

when you kiss her it feels like every single good prayer you had been brave enough to whisper has been answered; it feels like god is in you, god is in _her._

the waves crash below you, the same as always; the sun continues to set. you walk home with her hand in yours, study her darker skin, the veins creeping purple, keeping her blood inside. you kiss her again, and again, and she laughs into your mouth. there are flowers along the cliffs, bright yellow even in the waning light—all around you.

/

18

you’re downstairs in the huge kitchen, sitting at the island while christen operates their fancy espresso machine. you watch her, with abandon now: how she brushes her curls over one shoulder; she’d slept with them in braids, like she always does when it’s curly, you’ve noticed, but taken them out when she woke up, smiled at you shyly even though she’s done this for years in front of you when you room together. her tiny sleep shorts, the gold of her skin, her careful fingers, the way her shoulder blades are so sharp you can see them through her old stanford t-shirt.

she eventually brings you a mug of coffee and smiles at you. ‘i can feel you staring, you know.’

‘well, i’ve done it for years,’ you say, which is embarrassing but she blushes so you try not to dwell on it. ‘you just never noticed.’

her face falls a little, which isn’t what you intended at all—you’re here together now, and you weren’t ready for her years ago, not grown up enough, not smart enough—and you shake your head, tuck a curl behind her ear.

it’s easy, easier than it’s ever been with anyone in your life, for her to step between your legs and then kiss you. it hits you, square in the chest, that you’re never going to want to kiss anyone other than christen ever again, and it would be scary except for you know the little birthmark on her back, and the way she dog ears pages of books she likes, and how she hates if you leave socks lying around on the floor. it would be scary except for it’s not, because you’re in her parents’ big kitchen and it smells like coffee and she tastes like toothpaste and you’d woken up next to each other this morning, the same as so many times before but different.

‘finally,’ christen’s mom says, laughing as her dad says, ‘well, good morning.’

this isn’t how you planned to tell them, _obviously_ ; christen had a whole speech, and you kind of want to sink into the floor, you’re a little mortified to be making out with their daughter in their kitchen—but then cody claps you on the back.

‘welcome to the family, tobin.’

stacy rolls her eyes, shares a small, warm smile with christen, who squeezes your hand.

/

19

there are so many firsts: you go to pick up some groceries for stacy at the whole foods a few miles away and you put whatever junk food you can find in the cart every time christen looks away, or goes off to inspect avocados, or reads a list of ingredients on the back of the box.

she glares at you every time and eventually spins around after she’d carefully put overnight oats into the cart. ‘tobin, stop,’ she says, but she’s laughing and she pins you up against the shelves and you grin.

‘i’m in love with you.’

it slips out, just like that, while you’re in a hoodie and shorts with the number twenty-three on them, in the middle of a grocery store.

her eyes search yours for a moment but then she kisses you, deeply and softly and like you have a long, long time. someone eventually clears their throat and christen laughs into your mouth and you back up and then a few boxes of granola bars topple off the shelf and fall onto your head, and christen only laughs harder.

you load the groceries carefully in the trunk, later, and hold her hand on the winding drive home.

/

20

it’s thanksgiving, and she’s not where you are and you’re happy—you’re with people you love, and there’s good food and good wine and so much laughter—but it aches, all the same.

you facetime her, and you can tell she’s had wine because her cheeks are rosy and she bites her lip when she sees your face.

‘i’m so grateful for you.’

she looks like she wants to reach out and touch you through the camera; you understand the feeling. she blows a kiss again, clumsy and a little uncoordinated, and you pretend to catch it in your hand, put your fingers to your lips.

/

21

you planned this trip to hawaii months and months ago, and you’re still jazzed even though it’ll be kind of awkward now with kelley as a third wheel—but if there’s anyone who’s going to be thrilled to be the world’s most annoying third wheel on the planet, it’s kelley, so it’s fine, really.

your flight is early; christen wakes you up with a kiss to your collarbone, then the underside of your jaw, the sky lightening, just the slightest bit, outside.

/

22

‘wow, that was an amazing pose, christen,’ kelley says, almost doubled over in laughter. your abs hurt too, because christen is sitting in a chair and keeps kicking her leg out and saying ‘party time!’ you’d let her take two tiny hits of the joint you and kelley were sharing and _this_ is the result—you know weed sometimes makes her anxious but not now, apparently, hanging out on the private stretch of beach outside your shared house.

it’s nighttime, later than you probably realize, but it’s still warm and perfect outside.

‘do it again, chris,’ kelley says.

‘only if you say the magic word,’ she says, winking in your direction.

‘please,’ you drawl out, admiring the stretch of her stomach and the long lines of her thighs.

‘no.’ she shakes her head, grinning. ‘the second p-word.’

your brain is floating and your mouth is operating all on its own when you immediately say, ‘pussy.’

kelley doubles over in laughter and christen snorts and there are tears in her eyes when she finally gets out, ‘no, _party_!’

you lean over in your chair and kiss her, just once—it’s messy and terrible because no one can stop laughing and kelley smacks you on the back when you try to deepen it and for a moment it’s like you’re all just kids again.

/

23

new orleans at night is beautiful. you’re drunk, and christen is drunk too, and you’re warm and with your friends and you take her hand gently after a little while; she’s smiling at abby and kelley’s antics but it’s a little strained, her eyes not crinkling in the right way.

you lead her out of the bar and she takes a deep breath when you get outside, just off the busy sidewalk in a little alley tucked behind the building.

you put your hand on the side of her face and check her eyes gently. ’you good?’

she nods. ‘it’s just— _loud_.’

‘yeah.’ you get out your phone, text alex that you and christen are heading back to the hotel, and not to worry. you offer her your hand again with a little flourish and her smile reaches her eyes. ‘wanna get out of here?’

it feels good to hold her hand as you walk along the busy streets, meandering and happy. she shivers and you shrug off your jacket, place it over her shoulders. she turns to you with a smile and says, ‘thanks, tobin,’ and you nod like it’s nothing, like it’s something you’ve meant to do for years now.

you grin when you see a little gazebo in a small park, tug her hand. there are fairy lights hanging all around; it’s beautiful. you take out your phone and put on some gentle song, look her in the eyes. you let go of her hand and then immediately offer yours again—‘may i have this dance, lady press?’

she rolls her eyes but she takes your hand. ‘i’m really fond of you, you know.’

‘yeah,’ you say. ‘don’t know why, but i’m counting my lucky stars.’

she kisses you, then, and the speakers on your phone are tinny but the song floats away, the spanish moss on the trees swaying back and forth in the night breeze.

/

_[eat the fruit that feeds your spirit / on your knees now baby eat it, eat it / do you close your eyes & think about me / like i think about you]_

/

24

you’re barely coherent because you have two fingers inside of her, curling hard, and your thumb on her clit. you’d made her come twice already: once, almost on accident, against your thigh; once, with purpose, with your mouth. your whole body is still trembling with the force of it all; she’s soft and smooth and so incredibly beautiful.

her skin strains along her collarbones and you look at her and then you bite there, a little rough because she seems to like that, _told you_ beforehand—when you were careful, when you asked her if she had any triggers, when she touched your face so gently as you did—she told you this is what she likes.

‘god, you feel so good,’ you say into her skin, feel her clench tighter around you. ‘you’re so good.’

she moans louder than you’ve ever heard her and you want to ask if _that’s_ something she likes to but she’s coming so hard, so wet around your fingers, her back arched off the bed and her hands gripping the sheets.

you stroke her through her orgasm, help her come down gently. when she taps your wrist you take slide your fingers out of her, put them to her lips and she groans again as she takes them in her mouth, and it’s literally probably the hottest thing you’ve experienced in your life.

she tugs on your legs, and you spread them above her face, put your hands on the headboard and try not to shake as she sucks your clit into her mouth before flicking it a few times with her tongue.

‘oh my _god_ ,’ you say, look down and see her staring up at you, and you think you might cry you’re going to come so hard. you’re careful not to grind down too much into her face but she pulls on your thighs and it’s a little filthy, the way she doesn’t stop you from coming all over her mouth.

you lie down next to her, after, and she kisses you without wiping her mouth first and you groan. ‘i can’t feel my legs’

‘me either.’ she laughs. ‘that was so much better than i even imagined.’

‘oh, so you’ve thought about this before?’

she rolls her eyes. ‘for years.’

you let out a big breath at that quiet statement. ‘me too.’

she wipes her mouth, then, on the back of your hand, leans over to kiss you softly.

‘happy birthday, baby,’ you say, kiss her back.

/

25

people count down around you and she tastes like champagne.

‘happy new years, chris.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 26-50, aka 2016-2017. timeline should be mostly accurate but like who knows tbh!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh sorry for the wait & sorry that this is sadder than i thought it would be they just had a rough go of it in 2017. its twice as long tho so that's something. also u know it's all fiction, pls dont @ me. this isnt rly edited so hopefully its ok. 
> 
> finally—i hope you're all as safe as u can be. love u, mean it

[ _ i’m glad i didn’t die before i met you / now i don’t care i could go anywhere with you / & i’d probably be happy / yeah these things take forever, i especially am slow / but i realized that i need you & i wondered if i could come home _ ]

/

26

you’re in your brother’s truck outside your mom’s house in florida, clutching the box of pasta she’d sent you out to get. christen is sitting silently next to you and you feel tears building in your eyes, your throat getting tight and your breath coming high in your chest.

christen is just waiting—silently, staring down at her hands and glancing at you every now and then. it’s been a while, of you knowing her, of you loving her like this, like you do, like you’re growing to more and more every day; you think, when you’ve been drunk on whiskey and it was cold and dark in portland—you think you’ve told her about the hurt of it.

‘i was a little kid, you know,’ you say, not looking at her at all.

she stays quiet, just waits; for once, you don’t feel like you need to hurry. 

‘i know you were a little kid too, when you knew.’

‘yeah,’ she says, softly. ‘i was.’

christen told you, before you were even together at all, back when you were just friends, that her parents knew she liked girls when she came home in third grade  _ adamant  _ about getting leah brandt red roses for valentine’s day because that’s what her dad gave her mom. they didn’t ask her anything, didn’t pressure her; she—in the most christen fashion, and you had laughed so hard you almost cried when she told you—she had made a powerpoint presentation when she was eleven, all about lgbtq youth, and she had cried because she was scared but her parents had hugged her and her older sister had laughed and her younger sister didn’t really care and—that was that.

‘i was a kid,’ you say again—your therapist has told you that; your coaches have told you that. ‘like, i was sixteen, when i told my parents.’

christen looks at you; you feel her soft gaze but you can’t meet it.

‘my dad told me he didn’t want me,’ you say, dig your nails into your palm. ‘as a daughter. he didn’t want me.’

‘tobin,’ she says, so softly. ‘you never—‘ she sighs. ‘you never told me.’

‘we’re better now, so.’

‘still.’

‘yeah, well, i’m telling you now.’

you’ve been fighting with her all day, so irritated but mostly because you feel, like, real  _ panic _ sitting in your chest.

you haven’t looked at her so you don’t cry but you feel tears pressing at your eyes anyway. ‘they never said it, but i think that’s why my parents got divorced.’ you take the shakiest breath and christen slowly unravels your fingers from your palm, laces them with hers.

your voice starts to break but you’re talking now and it’s been bottled up for so long, underneath all the bravado and success and  _ happiness _ you have. 

‘they never said it to me, but they fought so much after i told them i was gay, and then—i lived with my coach, for a while, before i went to college. it was just, like, really— _ bad _ ? at home.’

christen frowns, breathes evenly, and you try to match her breaths even though you feel so shaky.

‘i just, i know it’s not my fault but it felt like i had ripped my family apart. like if i hadn’t told them, or if i wasn’t—if i  _ wasn’t _ —’

‘tobin,’ christen says, firm and kind. ‘you didn’t do anything wrong. first, being who you are, telling them that? could never be wrong.’ she punctuates it with a squeeze of your hand, then continues. ‘but also, you were a kid—you are their  _ child _ .’ she wipes tears from your cheeks and finally gets you to look at her, and you see unshed tears in her eyes too, which heals something you never even knew was hurting. ‘nothing that happened after you came out was your fault. i swear, baby.’

it’s clumsy, trying to fold your body into hers with the console in the way, and the box of pasta pressing into your stomach—but you do; her hand strokes through your hair and you cry harder than you have in a long, long time about this.

eventually, you sit up. ‘i’ve never brought a girl home before.’

‘well i  _ am _ your mother’s favorite child,’ she says, a teasing smile on her face as she gently wipes your tears. ‘she said so herself.’

you roll your eyes, appease her little joke—but it gives you time to breathe, to laugh lightly.

‘do you feel—you’re _ proud _ , to be queer?’

‘yeah,’ she says. ‘i’m black, i’m queer, i’m a woman. it could be really sad to hold all of those identities and histories, if i wasn’t proud—if i didn’t celebrate those things about myself, you know.’

you clench your jaw, feel it twitch, try your hardest to understand, to absorb some of her remarkable quiet strength. ‘i’m proud you’re my girlfriend.’

‘—but?’

‘i don’t know if i’m proud of myself yet. this part of myself.’ you think about having to find a new church, about poring over bible passages late at night—genesis, leviticus, even the gospels: romans, 1 corinthians—and you think about finding jesus new places: the ocean at sunrise, the laughter of your friends, the way it feels to play a perfect C chord on the piano, the smell of a campfire in october.

and now: christen, always christen.

‘i want to be proud,’ you say, like a promise, a little hesitant but you’ve made up your mind. ‘like you, and abby, and pinoe.’

‘well i don’t know about the last two,’ she says. ‘that’s, like, a  _ lot _ of pride.’

it makes you laugh, which makes snot come out of your nose, which is disgusting and you’re about to wipe it on the sleeve of your hoodie but christen shoves a tissue in your hand before you can, grimacing. ‘do you have a little pack of tissues with you?’ you ask after you clean yourself up a little bit.

‘well something was off, and you love sharing years of feelings in the car, so i figured i’d just be prepared.’

you blink at her a few times, wonder when you let someone get under your skin this much, know you  _ this _ well. 

you lean over the console and kiss her gently. ‘thank you.’

she tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. ‘i’m proud of you,’ she says, and your hands ache. ‘i’m proud of how you play football, and how you read the books i give you, and how you always pick up the mugs i leave around. and, tobin, i’m really proud of you for being who you are.’

‘christen,’ you say, your voice wavering again. ‘i  _ just _ stopped crying.’

she laughs. ‘i mean it really works out in my favor that you’re a lesbian.’

you shove her shoulder lightly. ‘stupid.’

her smile only grows. ‘i’ll just keep telling you how proud i am, so that one day you’ll be proud too.’

you nod.

‘deal?’

‘deal.’

you finally get out of the car and your mom hadn’t needed the pasta at all; you see her share a glance with christen, who nods, and your mom’s shoulders relax. she wraps you up in a firm, long hug, and you sniffle into her sweater. 

she checks over your face, just like she always has after you’ve been upset, then kisses your forehead. ‘love you, tobes.’

‘love you too, mom.’

‘you and your girlfriend go get washed up and then help me set the table,’ she says, just like that, shooing you and christen toward the stairs. ‘dinner’s almost ready.’

/

27

there are children playing near you on the rocky beach by the ocean, screaming in joy as the waves break at their ankles, scampering in and out of the water.

sometimes you don’t understand how you got so lucky: the cliffs and the sun and christen throwing a stick for the dogs along the sand and laughing when they run up to you, where you’re sitting, taking it all in.

she jogs over and you try to remember the sound of kids laughing, and the stillness—you would stay here, if you could, you think.

she puts her hand on your cheek and bends down to kiss you. ‘come play,’ she says, happy. really happy. it feels like so much future is stretching out in front of you; you get to your feet and lace your fingers together, let her lead you along the beach, back toward her home.

/

28

you’re in portland, in your bed in your room, and it’s a still, cold day.

christen is wearing your t-shirt and nothing else, her head against your chest while you run your fingers through her curls. she’d washed them earlier and it had been a quiet event that took longer than you’d ever really known—you’d never noticed before, but she cared, that you saw her like this, not just quick glances of a bun and a towel wrapped around her body as you traded places in a hotel bathroom or locker room, or even shared showers in the past few months.

she’s teaching you what intimacy is, you’re starting to realize: the way oil has to sit in her hair for hours before she washes it, how she carefully puts cocoa butter on her hands every morning after her quiet yoga practice. her silk pillowcases and books you’re always struggling to understand, deeply caring about.

this evening, it’s toni morrison, and she reads as you just lie there, feel her breath, wonder at the complexities of her.

‘ _ don’t ever think i fell for you. or fell over you _ ,’ she says, voice a little rough.

‘what?’

she turns her head to kiss near your elbow, over your hoodie, lifts the book just a little bit and then settles back against you.

‘ _ i didn’t fall in love, i rose in it. i saw you and i made up my mind. _ ’

/

29

‘don’t,’ you groan. ‘chris, don’t.’

christen rubs between your shoulder blades gently and to her credit she doesn’t laugh, just hands you a glass of water. ‘do you think you’re done?’

‘i genuinely don’t think there’s anything left in my body.’

‘baby,’ she says, kisses your back, over your shirt. ‘can i help you to bed?’

you sigh and nod, fight the wave of nausea that rises when you stand, try not to hobble too much on your sore knees because you really don’t need to give her any more fodder. she helps you lie down under the duvet, sits on the edge of the bed and runs a hand along your sweaty hair, undoes your bun for you because you don’t like it when you sleep.

you feel physically awful, and it’s your stupid fault, but that doesn’t help. your throat hurts and your ribs hurt and really your whole body hurts.

‘stay?’ you croak out, a little pathetically, turning to bury your face against her thigh.

‘yeah,’ she says, even though this isn’t her hotel room and she’s going to have to trade with someone. ‘of course i’ll stay, tobin.’

you sigh and she rubs your lower back, just beneath where your t-shirt has ridden up. you take deep, even breaths so that your nausea starts to subside. 

‘i swear i’ll never eat airport sushi ever again. in my  _ life _ ,’ you groan, curl up into a tighter ball which you hope will help.

she just laughs once, mostly in sympathy, and scoots you over so that she can lie down behind you, hold you to her tight. ‘i told you it was a bad idea.’

‘you don’t need to rub it in,’ you say. ‘i’m  _ dying _ .’

‘you just have food poisoning,’ she says, tapping her fingers against your stomach once in a little reprimand. ‘no dying on my watch.’

‘okay, dr. press.’ you can’t see her but you know she’s rolling her eyes. ‘let’s just hope i feel better by morning.’

she stays with you all night; you do.

/

[ _ if i told you that you rock my world, i want you around me / would you let me call you my girl _ ]

/

30

you’ve been thinking. a lot. a  _ lot _ , about all of the photographers and make up artists and, just, everyone else that had touched christen. everything was incredibly professional, and she was  _ glowing _ and you know she’d been nervous, but she’d ended up having such a good time, her smile stretching wide for most of the day.

you’ve been thinking a lot about all the hands that have touched christen in general before you—and you want to bring it up, want to ask her something really important, but it’s always been hard to get the important words out, even harder with her because you get distracted by her eyes and her smile and her thin, long fingers and the dimples at the base of her spine, the way her hips are softer and fuller than yours, her muscles gentler, smaller, less sharp— _ beautiful _ .

you’ve been thinking about the way the veins in her neck had strained earlier, when you’d had your hand on them—careful,  _ so _ careful—while the fingers on your other hand curled inside her, how she had strained and clenched and released, gulping in a breath when you took your hand away and then sighing your name; you never hold her gentler than after she wants you to touch her like that; after  _ you  _ want to touch her like that—rough and demanding, like she’s yours.

she’s reading in bed next to you now, naked and hours later after you’d ordered vietnamese and eaten it on the couch, trying to not get grease from the spring rolls everywhere. now, you let your eyes linger on the little swell of her tummy when she bends over a bit, which you think is maybe your favorite thing about her sometimes. the question you want to ask presses against your chest, fights its way and sits there, right in your heartspace. 

‘chris?’

‘hmm?’

‘christen?’

she puts the book down this time, looks at you, and then looks at the page number and closes the book, sets it gently on the nightstand before turning back toward you.

‘what’s up?’

you take a big breath. ‘i was just thinking, after today, and, you know, uh. with the season coming up?’

‘yeah?’

‘will you, like, be my girlfriend?’

she laughs, just once, and it hits you in your whole body—a wave of embarrassment. 

‘baby,’ she says, takes both of your hands. ‘i’m sorry. for laughing, tobin, i’m sorry.’ 

she cups your cheek because you’re staring down at your hands, your whole chest flushed.

‘it’s just—it’s been months? and i took you to this thing today because i just, i already thought i  _ was _ your girlfriend?’

‘oh,’ you say. she just waits, lets it sink in. then you feel yourself start to smile, which makes her smile, and you feel stupid and happy and so in love. ‘really?’

‘i wasn’t just bringing you because we have a good time hanging out.’

‘we have a  _ great  _ time hanging out,’ you say, skim your hand up her side, thumb over her nipple. she sighs but then laces your fingers together, rolls her eyes.

‘once we started going out, i just thought that was it, you know? we both wanted each other for so long.’

‘yeah,’ you say, your chest so full you think you might burst. ‘i just didn’t want to assume.’

‘that’s sweet.’ she leans over, kisses you soundly. ‘but, hate to break it to you, i’ve been your girlfriend for months.’

‘wow.’

she laughs, squeezes your hand.

‘i’d marry you tomorrow, if you asked.’

her smile grows shy, a little serious. you hadn’t meant to say it but she’s naked in bed next to you and you love her; it’s true. ‘one day.’

‘yeah,’ you say, tug her body toward yours clumsily so you’re in a tangled heap of elbows and knees and her laughter. ‘one day.’

/

[ _ i saw the stars and i didn't ask why / i wanted to get it right so badly that i always got it wrong _ ]

/

31

things are beautiful, and good, and you’re more in love with her every single minute. you hold hands on the flight to rio; she knows your airport bagel order; you sneak out of your respective rooms one night and kick the ball around, barefoot, on a small field you had seen nearby.

things are beautiful and good until they’re not, until the ball is sailing over the crossbar and you care about football—you do, deep in your bones—but christen’s shoulders fall and her eyes fill with tears and suddenly you don’t care about medals, don’t care about accolades or titles or teams or any of it.

you care about her.

later, her breaths are coming fast, so fast, and she’s apologizing, one word tumbling out of her body after the next: ‘i’m so sorry,’ she says, choking on air. ‘tobin, i’m  _ so sorry _ .’

she won’t look at you, and her breathing gets even more erratic, and it dawns on you that this is a panic attack. you’d read about them, before, months ago, and talked to kelley, after christen had mentioned that she gets them sometimes, and so you remember: ‘christen,’ you say, then again, and then you have her name how many of your shoes are in a messy line up against the wall, the color of your hoodie, the name of the street she grew up on. 

eventually she starts to calm, shrinking into herself. ‘i don’t—‘ she starts softly, her voice wrecked. you frown, don’t know if you should hold her to you or give her space. but she puts her cheek against your chest and so you know what to do; you wrap your arms around her and you don’t tell her that it’s going to be okay; you don’t tell her that one day it won’t feel like this.

you hold her tight, kiss her forehead— _ for better or for worse _ . you don’t say anything; you don’t know what to say.

/

32

she goes to therapy and you think things are getting better: she’s talking and she’s eating and you take a few weeks off, to “rest and recover,” but really you just don’t know if she really ever wants to play again.

sometimes, like tonight, you wake up and see the bed empty next to you. usually, all the nights you’ve spent with her in the past, she’s stuck to a very strict sleep schedule. but sometimes now the moon illuminates the rumpled sheets, and sometimes they’re still warm; sometimes you can tell they’ve been cold for hours.

you’re at a house away from the city, in the mountains, close enough to feel like home but far enough that you feel like you can escape from her devastation and your anxiety. there’s a stretch of grass outside of your back patio, green and it smells, always, like summer.

tonight the sheets are cold when you reach out for her in the dark, and you put on a sports bra and then a hoodie even though it’s still hot tonight. you blearily put your glasses on, walk down the stairs and slide the glass door open, walk barefoot outside. you see her figure running sprints: fast, elegant,  _ ruthless _ .

she does this, most nights: it’s 2:17 am and there’s the moon and the forest and christen. she won’t let you touch her, shies away from any gentleness—but you promise yourself:  _ love is faithful _ .

so you show up.

she tells you the pattern of sprints she’s running, and you’re so bone tired but you run them with her, every time. you’re slower by a step, like always, and eventually you take off your hoodie and your glasses and when you start to feel a little nauseous, like your lungs are on fire—you tell her that you have to stop.

she looks at you in the moonlight, with your arms over your head, clasped at the wrists so you can try to open up your chest and get your breathing under control. her sharp gaze softens, and she touches your hip gently.

‘i love you,’ she says.

you wait for her to lean in, wait for her to kiss you: it hurts but you have all the time in the world to love her; to get better at loving her.

tonight she does—kiss you, gently, as the grass tickles around your ankles, the trees around you rustling collectively in the wind like a breath.

/

33

you hold her close at your sister’s wedding; your dress is a little scratchy and you feel out of place and clumsy, like always in clothes like this, but she says, ‘you’re so beautiful,’ and, for one fleeting moment, you do believe her.

you dance with her, nice and slow. she kisses your cheek beneath the lights.

/

34

you think things are getting more solid, steadier: her sleeping is better; you’re both back playing and there had been a small part of you—a terrified part of you—that was so scared she’d never play again. but she plays like she has something to prove, and maybe she does: she scores and scores and scores. you go to camp and you hug her after all of her goals; she taps your ass one game and it makes you laugh.

eventually, though, the season ends, camps end, and you’re back in portland—your home, which is mostly her home now too; you’ve been together for a year and she wakes you up the morning of your anniversary with coffee and roses. it’s beautiful, for a few days: christen and her curls and the rain.

but then one day, you wake up and she’s still asleep next to you. you go to wrap your arm around her stomach, because mornings like this are rare for you and you love them, cherish them. but she moves away from you, shrugs you off, sinks further into her side of the bed. you frown, prop yourself up on an elbow. ‘chris?’

she just sighs. 

‘what’s going on?’

‘i’m just tired,’ she says, curling into herself even more. ‘i’m gonna sleep some more.’

a small pit starts to form in your stomach. ‘are you sure you’re—everything’s okay?’

‘yeah,’ she says without moving. 

you accept it, because she’s asked you to trust her and you’re both adults, and she’s had a much harder time with mental health throughout her life than you have, and she’s worked so hard to be in a better place. you get up, make coffee and a light breakfast, pop your head into your room to see if she’s awake, if she wants any food.

you’re not  _ that _ concerned, because it’s only 9:30 am, and she’s still asleep. but you go on a run at forest park, and when you get back she hasn’t moved. her eyes are open now, though, and she’s staring at the wall, tears leaking out of them.

‘chris,’ you say, quickly kneeling down next to her, your sweaty hair plastered all over your forehead and your old unc long sleeve t-shirt soaked all the way through. normally she would grimace, would make you get in the shower immediately, grumbling in fondness, but today her face just crumples. ‘christen, what’s wrong?’

she shakes her head, takes a big breath in and then, as if its a herculean effort, says, ‘i feel so empty.’

‘baby,’ you say, and it hits you square in the chest that maybe you haven’t noticed; maybe you haven’t been paying enough attention. or, the even scarier thought: maybe your love isn’t strong enough. ‘what can i do to help?’

she looks at you so sincerely, so sadly, you almost cry. ‘i just need to sleep. until i feel better.’

you clench your jaw because you don’t think that will  _ really _ help but you nod. ‘okay.’

she closes her eyes and you reach out, like you always do—like you’ve always done, even before you were together—to gently smooth her hair down. she moves away from you and you’ve felt hurt before, but not like this: slow and winding and inexplicable. 

she sleeps all day, barely acknowledges you when you bring her toast and water. she sits up and eats it with grim determination, drinks a glass of water and then lies back down. by the time it’s evening, and the sun has gone down, you’re anxious enough—and have spent hours googling what depressive episodes look like—to ask her: ‘can i talk to someone, so i know what to do to help? kelley, or tyler?’

she doesn’t open her eyes so you don’t even really know if she heard you, or if she’s going to answer, but then she offers a tiny shrug. ‘it was bad like this in college a few times.’

it’s not a  _ yes _ but it’s good enough for now, what you’ll take for now, and so you facetime kelley, and her mouth sets in a sad line when you tell her what’s going on.

‘it’s just gonna be like two days of this, dude,’ she says. ‘it happens; she gets better, always.’

‘i’m so scared,’ you say, try to be quiet, try to wipe the tears from your cheeks as fast as possible, although you don’t think she’d tease you right now.

‘yeah,’ she says. ‘just make sure you bring her food and water; make sure she’s, like, peeing? and she should talk to her therapist tomorrow.’

‘okay.’

‘but, like, obviously i’ll check in with you, if you want?’

‘yeah,’ you say. ‘thanks kelley.’

she waves a hand. ‘pressy and i go way back, you know that. she’s your girl but she’s  _ my _ girl too.’

it makes you laugh, just a beat, and she nods.

‘it’s like her brain has the flu or something. it’ll run its course.’

it doesn’t really make sense to you, how christen went from a hat trick and picking strawberries and crushing you on trail runs one day to not being able to get out of bed the next, when she’s not, like, physically sick or hurt—but you spend a lot of time just being near her, being around her. the next day she doesn’t move either, and the pit in your stomach keeps growing. eventually kelley calls and gives you directions on how to get christen to talk to her therapist, how to get her out of bed and into the shower.

‘you know how to wash her hair?’ she asks, and it dawns on you that people have loved her deeply before you; that she’s let people in, that she’s made it through the darkness before, without you. you feel inadequate and relieved all at the same time.

‘yeah,’ you say—and so you do.

she tries to argue with you, but it’s so feeble it’s over before it even really begins. it’s a slow affair, helping her sit up and putting oil in her hair, and then keeping her occupied long enough for it to sit. but you put on a show she loves that makes her laugh; she doesn’t laugh, not now, but her eyes stay trained on it and she holds your hand for a while and, for one miraculous second, you watch the corner of her mouth lift up. 

eventually, you get her up out of bed and into the bathroom. she walks like she’s exhausted, like there’s none of the  _ spirit _ you’re so in love with left. but she leans into your touch a little, lets you take off her three day old, by now, t-shirt and pull down her sleep shorts. you make sure the water is the right temperature before you get into the shower with her, and you ask her if you can wash her hair, or if she wants to do it.

she doesn’t really say anything, so you do exactly as you’ve watched her do so many times, massage shampoo patiently into her long curls. she has her back to you but her breathing starts to change after you’ve rinsed the shampoo out and are working conditioner through gently.

she starts to cry, long, deep sobs, and you feel very clueless and out of your depth until she turns around and wraps you up in a hug, presses her face into your neck.

’tobin,’ she says, and you hold her to you so tight, wish that you could take away what she’s feeling, all of how she’s hurting. you would if you could.

‘it’s gonna be okay, chris,’ you say. ‘i promise, we’ll figure it out.’

it feels like the right thing to say, because it feels like something to figure out, not something that will immediately just be fine—because clearly it hasn’t been fine for a while.

she backs up after a while, looks at you very seriously. ‘you don’t have to stay in this,’ she says, and your body panics before your brain can even catch up. ‘i don’t—it might be a lot, and i don’t expect you to stay.’

you take a second to process and then you straighten your spine, relax your shoulders, look her right in the eyes. ‘i  _ delight _ in you.’

her brows knit together.

‘god, jesus, you know—everyone, all the humans, we’re always a mess. but the love god has, he delights in us. a lot. it’s, like, grace.’

it’s a stumbling explanation, but she stumbles through it with you, takes a deep breath.

‘even when you feel really bad,’ you say, mean it with all your heart, the words aching all the way into your hands, ‘i’m gonna stay, chris. i love you. i wanna give you grace. i’m always gonna stay.’

she wraps you up again, nods into your skin. eventually she lets you rinse the conditioner out; you turn the water off and hand her a towel, wait with a little trepidation before she starts to dry herself off. you try not to act too relieved and just go with it.

‘tobin?’ she says, once she’s gotten dressed in clothes you’ve laid out for her, and you’ve stripped the bed and changed the linens; she moves out to the couch, wrapped up in a blanket like a little burrito, her hair in neat french braids, and you think you’ve never been more in love with her than in that moment.

‘yeah?’

‘i’m, like, starving.’

you don’t mean to grin but the smile stretches across your face before you can help it, which makes her roll her eyes. ‘i can make us something healthy?’

it’s safe, and easy, and you’re a really good cook. she seems to consider it, sits up a little straighter on the couch. ‘can we get fries?’

‘ _ duh _ ,’ you say, and it seems like it takes a lot out of her but she laughs. you bring your computer over and order an insane amount of french fries from your favorite food truck, then you go put on some joggers and sneakers and a jacket to go pick them up a few blocks down the street.

she looks at you, touches your hand, brings her lips to the pulse point on the thin underside of your wrist.

‘thank you,’ she says against your skin.

you put a hand to the crown of her head, and she rests her cheek against your hip—an easy intimacy; love everywhere. ‘christen. always.’

/

35

she shows you the house she’s going to put an offer down on. she spins around in the foyer, just once, in a long skirt and a crop top and her hair loose and wild and you think your heart might burst. .

‘i think the beach will be good for me,’ she says, reaches out her hand for you to take. ‘for us, you know. for the future, maybe, if we want.’

the windows face the west, and for a moment you think of sunsets with her, the way you’ve started to notice tiny wrinkles forming at the corners of her eyes—mostly, you think, from smiling—and you think of making her dinner and good glasses of wine and the little herb garden she’d plant and then, it’s a hope, really, this little spark in your chest—the weight of a tiny baby in your arms, with soft curls and dark skin and eyes that will eventually turn green, the way they’d grow and you’d teach them to surf and cook and you’d bring christen breakfast in bed on mother’s day, and—

you kiss the top of her hand, will your voice to be strong. ‘i think it’ll be amazing.’

/

36

you’ve been dreaming of this for a while. you hold up your barca sign—the one that had been under your seat—and turn to christen, who has her phone out and is smiling behind the screen.

you do your part in the cheer, and she puts her phone away and kisses you, in the middle of a stadium. allie elbows you in the ribs when you try to deepen it and you tell her to fuck off and christen holds your hand, her entire face lit up at you, and the stadium—and football itself.

you kiss her again.

/

37

the music from the bar spills out onto the street and into the alley, where you’re drunk and happy with your hand in hers; she laughs, stops, tugs you to her.

‘do you know flamenco?’ 

you  _ laugh _ . ‘do you think i know flamenco?’

she grins, puts her hands on your hips. ‘i’ll teach you.’

you kiss her neck, just underneath her jaw.

/

38

you think things are better, and maybe they are. you bundle up in these ridiculously intense snowsuits, even though you had been happy staying in your hotel room all day. but, ‘we’re alone in this beautiful forest, tobin!’ she says, too full of excitement and peace at the moment for you to think about saying no.

you’d planned it all out after you found out she was going to london for the gala: spain, el classico, seeing jenni, and then sweden.  _ here _ , in this treehouse hotel room, in the country that had made her fall in love with football so many times.

‘we could stay naked,’ you say, just for posterity, and she rolls her eyes, gets out of bed. you pout but really you just enjoy the view as she walks away, bends over her suitcase. ‘ _ chris _ ,’ you groan. 

she laughs, looks over her shoulder and then shrugs.

you sigh, put on the boxers she flings in your direction, eventually get up and get ready to go outside. you walk for a little while in the cold quietly, just taking it in.

‘you know, it’s happened to me before,’ she says. ‘depressive episodes.’

‘yeah,’ you say. ‘kelley told me.’

‘it’s been over a month,’ she says, matter of fact. ‘my therapist keeps telling me to talk to you about it. to, like, let you in.’

you have no idea what to say, want it to  _ mean  _ something. ‘i’m here,’ you say, seriously. ‘for whatever you want to tell me.’

‘i know—‘ like it’s simple, like she’s always known, and maybe she has— ‘these are just things that are hard to talk about.’

you try to take her hand but you’re both wearing huge gloves and it makes you both laugh. she wraps her arm around yours instead, and it’s quiet all around you, your nose starting to run in the winter air. she tells you, haltingly but sure, about how she hasn’t always been safe, about how devastating it is to feel like she’s felt; how her parents and tyler and kelley have had to help her pull herself back up, back out of the  _ nothingness _ . 

later that night, after you eat dinner together quietly, after you’re warm again, you kiss her skin. you know what more of it means now: a little scar here or there that you’d never wondered about, really, never known to question.

eventually it’ll catch up to you: your desperate anger that christen has  _ ever  _ felt like that; the ache that this is something you will never be able to fix.

but for now you kiss down her stomach, along her hips, then the soft inside of her thighs. she laces her fingers with yours and sighs your name.

/

39

‘i’m so proud of you,’ she says, kissing down your back to wake you up.

you’re barely awake and really only care that christen’s lips are on your skin. ‘hmm?’

‘us soccer named you player of the year this morning.’

you smile into your pillow, feel a swell of content in your chest. ‘huh. cool.’

she laughs against your spine. ‘it’s pretty sexy.’

‘yeah?’

she drags her nails down your back. ‘yeah.’

/

40

you walk her to her hotel room during camp, kiss her goodnight.

/

41

christen gushes over your sister, gently puts her hands to her stomach after she asks if it’s okay. your families are having brunch together and you never really thought you’d feel like this—like you’d _ have _ this, a union with all the people you love, and that they would love each other too.

you’re quiet, like you normally are, but it’s spring and warm enough for all of you to eat outside and your mom compliments how neatly christen is able to eat her grapefruit half, tells her that she should teach you, which you endure with a good natured eye roll because she squeezes your shoulder fondly and you’re close to where you grew up, and everything feels  _ right _ .

‘this’ll be you guys in a few years,’ you sister says to you quietly, when everyone is laughing at a joke christen’s dad made.

the thought makes your chest ache, your heart race, because it seems like too much to hope for, almost—all your prayers have been answered more than you could’ve dreamed; a family with christen almost seems like a miracle.

‘i don’t know,’ you say, because you’re too scared to bring it up concretely, even though you know christen wants a family one day. 

your sister looks at you seriously for a moment, and it’s always been hard to be the way that you are, with your perfect big sisters and their perfect husbands and perfect families. ‘she’s amazing, tobin,’ your sister says. ‘you’ll both be the best moms.’

it takes you out, and your smile is wobbly—but true. ‘thanks.’

‘i mean it.’

all you can do is squeeze her hand, and christen looks over at you, a little worried because you think tears are filling your eyes. you shake your head a little— _ i’m fine _ —and she nods. you eat the rest of your brunch, laugh with your families.

eventually you’re back at your hotel, sitting in bed playing mario kart while christen does some kind of restorative yoga practice on the balcony. 

‘tobin?’

‘yeah?’

‘were you upset, earlier?’

you appreciate the distance she gives you, how when you look up she’s sitting cross legged on her mat, peaceful and attentive.

‘the opposite, really.’

she waits, lets you gather your thoughts.

‘do you want kids?’

her concerned face turns bright, and it makes your whole body fill up.

‘yeah,’ she says. ‘one day, i do.’

then: ‘with  _ me _ ?’ 

she laughs, like it’s the silliest question in the world, like she’s never doubted her answer for a second. ‘of course with you.’

‘this feels like the best day of my life.’

she gets up, walks toward you and sits on the bed. ‘i want it all,  _ with you _ .’

you think of the episode of black mirror that you’d watched together recently, all neon and beach and love, love everywhere. ‘the rest of it?’

she kisses your cheek, then your lips. ‘yeah,’ she says. ‘the rest of it.’

/

42

things are perfect until, of course, they’re not.

you don’t remember that much, really, other than everything being mostly fine and then things aren’t, because you fall and something crunches and pops in your back, and then the muscles in your hips seize up and pain  _ shoots _ down your legs. you think it might be better if you get up and walk it off but you can’t—you can’t move, you can’t even really breathe.

you’d had x-rays at the training facility and then an MRI at the clinic, and they’d given you a bunch of pain meds and muscle relaxers, so it’s mostly blurry, fleeting memories. christen is there at your apartment when you get home, anxious to the point of panicking, you’re pretty sure. you want to help but you feel exhausted, try to explain what the doctors told you—months, they had said,  _ months _ —but you don’t remember all of it. 

she helps get you situated in bed, though, and then lies down next to you, holds your hand while you cry. she cries too, you think. ‘it’ll be okay, tobes,’ she says, kisses the salt on your cheeks.

/

43

you keep playing it over and over in your mind as you wait for her to exit the stadium: how AD had caught her—on accident, you know, and you’re not mad at all—and how she had been running so fast, had flown through the air. you keep thinking about the breathless moments when she didn’t get up right away, and you turned around because you couldn’t even watch. christen is an athlete, you know, you  _ know _ that, which means she could get hurt at any time—same as you.

but she’s also the woman you’re in love with, the person you care about more than anything in the world.

she walks out, spots you with a bright smile.

‘hey,’ she says, bag slung across her shoulder and a kiss to your cheek.

you don’t say anything, just step back and appraise her, one hand still on her hip, your arm outstretched.

she rolls her eyes. ‘i’m fine, tobin,’ she says, but tempers her annoyance with a gentle touch to the skin above your elbow. ‘i’ll be a little sore i’m sure but i’m totally fine.’

you study her face for a moment, because you know her tells, but she’s calm and certain.

‘nice’ you say, feel the knot in your chest release. ‘because you were so good today, baby.’

‘ _ tobin _ ,’ she whispers, glancing over her shoulder.

‘can’t wait to show you just how good you were.’

she takes off in the direction of your car immediately, leaving you laughing, a few steps behind.

/

44

you have to see a specialist for your back in los angeles, which gives her an excuse to see her family but also an excuse to stay for a few nights in her perfect house on the strand. her sisters had gotten her rollerblades as a funny present for christmas, and so one afternoon you decide you’re going to try to teach her.

she’s all enthusiastic smiles and exuberant laughter, almost topping over a few times but catching herself. you had planned to skate behind her but she goes way too slow so you just walk, find your heart lighter than you had in a while.

with her rollerblades on she’s inches taller than you; she bends down to kiss you, but she’s unsteady so you have to grab her by the hips so she doesn’t fall as she leans forward. you laugh into each other’s mouths.

‘love you.’

‘love you too.’

/

45

she scores—of course she does; a  _ banger _ of a goal, one of the best first touches you’ve ever seen. she turns, arms stretched out wide, and then brings her fingers together to form a little  _ T _ , presses it to her lips quickly.

‘oh my  _ god _ ,’ sonny squeals from next to you on the couch.

‘ _ tobin _ ,’ lindsey say, almost jumping up in excitement. ‘that was so  _ gay _ !’

‘did you see that!’

you laugh at the two of them, look back at christen’s huge smile as they replay her goal.

‘yeah,’ you say, hold it inside your chest as they continue to bounce around your couch, shoving you in the shoulder until you laugh with them. ‘i did.’

/

46

her words are slurring a little when she calls you, but she was out with her friends,  _ your _ friends, collectively, now, to watch your final match. you’re pretty sure you broke your ankle, or something is seriously fucked up, but you  _ won _ , so you’re trying to be brave, trying not to ruin her night, trying to let yourself feel happy and healthy, just for  _ one _ game, after everything.

‘tobin,’ she says, slow and happy, but then hangs up, which makes you laugh despite yourself. she facetimes you immediately, which you knew she would. she’s outside of one of your favorite bars, bundled up in a scarf and a peacoat, her hair shiny and straight and she’s so beautiful.

‘baby,’ she says, frowning. ‘what’s wrong?’

‘nothing,’ you say, walk to a quieter corner of the locker room, away from everyone  _ screaming _ about your win, and if she was sober she’d notice your limp.

her eyes are a little glossy but her brows knit together. ‘are you sure? you looked—is your ankle okay?’

‘yeah,’ you lie, and you don’t know why but things have been hard lately; you haven’t gotten to fly out very much to see her, and she’s been quieter than usual, and chicago is so, so far away. ‘i mean, it’ll be fine.’

she bites her bottom lip, contemplates it. ‘okay,’ she finally decides on, even though she looks doubtful. but then: ‘you  _ won _ !’

it makes you laugh, the way the screen goes blurry because she’s throwing her hands up for a second, then resettles it on her face. ‘yeah,’ you say. ‘we did.’

‘my champion.’

‘wish i could kiss you right now.’

she hums, blows you a clumsy kiss into the camera. it makes you remember when long distance felt easier, when you would catch her kisses and put them in your pocket like they were real; like you really could feel them.

‘tobes?’

‘yeah?’

‘it’s kinda cold,’ she says, ‘and it’s so loud inside because you won! so can i call you in a little bit?’

‘of course.’

she grins. ‘okay. i love you.’

you ache for her. ‘i love you too.’

she ends the call and you wait up, celebrate with your teammates; your cheeks are sore from smiling. she doesn’t call.

/

47

it starts off innocuous enough: you wrap your arms around her from behind and kiss the back of her neck. she leans back into you with a low hum. you clean up slowly after dinner, enjoying your wine and each other, the beautiful skyline from her apartment in chicago, the floor to ceiling window you had fucked her against earlier.

she cleans off the counters and puts leftovers into tupperware and it’s simple, and easy, and  _ forever _ —a week ago she’d taken you past the pallisades after you’d met with an orthopedic specialist in LA, late at night after you found out that your ankle would benefit most from surgery, that it’s going to add months onto your recovery, and she’d let you cry and scream and had held your hand, been steady and soft and patient through your anger and grief and fear.

you take the empty bottle of nice merlot you’d split over dinner to the recycling, and you know you haven’t been around lately, haven’t been able to pay that much attention, but—‘did you have a girls night or something?’

‘what?’

you flush with mortification and dread and you knew things were off, had been distant for months, but you thought it was because you were down about your nagging injury, how different rehabs hadn’t healed it; just thought the christen was giving you your space, was tired and irritated from the long season, but—‘uh, there’s just, a lot of wine bottles?’

there’s a pause and you put the one in your hand into the bin in silence, then turn toward her.

‘what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘chris,’ you say, putting your palms up. ‘it doesn’t mean anything.’

‘well, you said it, so it must mean something.’

‘i don’t understand why you’re getting defensive about this,’ you say, anxiety building in your chest; you know how conversations like this go: you get upset and flustered and confused quickly, have no processing time. 

‘well, you’re being accusatory.’

‘christen,’ you say, try to slow things down, try to make her face anything other than pinched in anger. ‘i’m not, i swear.’

‘then why would you even say that?’

‘i just—‘

‘just,  _ what _ , tobin?’

she steps closer to you.

‘chris,’ you say, and you feel tears prick at your eyes. ‘how much have you been drinking?’

it’s a whisper, almost, and it hangs in the air for a few seconds before she clenches her jaw. ‘i’m fine.’

your chest aches; your stomach bottoms out. ‘christen.’

‘no,’ she says, then sniffles, pulls herself up to her full height—annoyingly just taller than you, although it seems like much more tonight. she’s spectacular in her anger: ‘you don’t get to fucking question me on  _ anything _ in my life right now.’

‘i’m just—‘

‘helping?’ she laughs, hollow. ‘you’ve been moping for the last six months, tobin. and i’ve been here, playing the absolute best i physically  _ can _ , and  _ still _ , i’m not good enough.  _ still _ , you win another fucking championship.’

‘baby—‘

‘no.’

‘please, chris, just let me—‘

you distantly realize that she’s drunk, that she’s been hurting more than you’d known for months, that maybe she wasn’t better like you thought she was. ‘you know,’ she says, ‘it’s a good thing you’re going to recover eventually, because you were right.’

‘what?’

‘if you weren’t good at soccer i don’t think you’d really amount to anything.’

it sucks the air from your lungs, the steadiness at which she says it. it’s the thing you’re scared of the most: that one day she’ll realize that you’re not good like her—not smart, not tenacious, not focused, not poised. that she’ll move on to be a therapist or a consultant or a ceo and meet someone  _ dazzling _ , and she’ll leave you, and you’ll just be left behind, aimless like you were for so long.

it’s hard to breathe and your body reacts before your brain can process anything: you let out a single sob, and she seems to realize what she’s said, what she’s  _ done _ , because her face crumples and she reaches toward you in supplication.

you shrug away from her, her touch burning.

‘tobin,’ she says, desperate, her hand coming to her mouth. ‘i didn’t mean that, you  _ know _ i didn’t mean that.’

you shake your head.

‘i’m so sorry.’ her words shake, her skin barely keeping her inside, and. you know it: the grief, the hurt; she felt it too. ‘i’m  _ sorry _ .’

‘i—‘ it’s hard to get any words out, so you stumble to get your coat. ‘i gotta go.’

you don’t look back, because if you do you’re going to stay, and it’s going to hurt you more than anything before in your life.

/

[ _ i’m in love with your honor / i’m in love with your cheeks / & i know it well _ ]

/

48

you really, sincerely don’t think she’s going to show up. it’s been two days, and you haven’t talked at all—haven’t known how to bridge the gap of what she said, how she’s clearly been hurting without you paying attention.

it runs over and over again in your brain; you can’t sleep or eat or run or juggle without thinking about it, have been crying more often than not.

but still:  _ love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perserveres. _

you’ve been praying about it, because this is something you could break up with her for, but you also think that love, in a lot of ways, and especially for you right now, is forgiveness. you want her; you want a life with her—you feel gutted at not getting to have that worse than her words made you feel.

you make up your mind: you show up. you are always going to show up.

you’re standing off to the side of the airport, your shoulders hunching more and more when each person walks past you from when her flight gets in. you’re about to give up, to drive home and call sinc and scream and cry and get so drunk you can’t see—but then there she is, with bags under her eyes and messy hair and her neck pillow crookedly almost falling off one shoulder, a wilted bouquet of flowers in her hand.

she walks toward you, hesitantly, like you might yell, or turn around and walk away. she holds out the flowers, and you’ve maybe never seen her look this rough; you’re sure you don’t fare much better.

‘hyacinth,’ she says, her voice rough from tears and underuse. ‘they’re for asking for forgiveness. it’s, like, what they mean.’

you’re so relieved that she’s here, that she’s in front of you and wrecked and deeply sorrowful, that she’s this whole person—she stayed too. she showed up.

you hug her to you, and then a sob rips through her and she tucks her face into your shoulder and she weeps, right there in the middle of the airport. you know it’s going to take months and months, that you probably should’ve gone to couple’s counseling way before this, that maybe she needs more help than you can give her—but you tuck your head too, let a shaky breath work its way into your lungs, kiss her jaw.

‘i love you,’ she says, not lifting her face. the flowers are still between the two of your, squished between your chests—forgiveness, right there, in your heartspace. ‘i’m so,  _ so _ sorry.’

you put your fingers under her chin, wait until she reluctantly meets your eyes. ‘i don’t forgive you,’ you say, so gently. ‘not yet.’

her face falls and she nods.

‘but—i love you too.’ you take a deep breath, touch her cheek until she does too. ‘let’s go home.’

/

[ _what can i do to love you more than i do now?_ ]

/

49

she hadn’t been able to answer your call on thanksgiving. tyler had, instead, from her own childhood bedroom, down the hall from christen’s. she’d told you, a little haltingly but with a mutual understanding that this is a person you  _ love _ , that christen had gotten so drunk by the middle of dinner that she was almost asleep at the table, that tyler had had to put her to bed.

you’re sitting with her now, back in portland, in the nice office of a therapist you’d found. she’s quieter than normal, and then she looks at you, her whole body trembling a little, so you take her hand, kiss her knuckles once, absentmindedly—so she knows you’re here.

‘i hurt you,’ she says, ‘more than i ever thought i was capable of. it still makes me feel sick, and i know i have to earn so much of your trust back. you’re not making me feel guilty, by wanting some space. i just—am sorry, all the time, because what i said wasn’t— _ isn’t _ —true. at all.’

you really don’t want to cry in front of your therapist but you just squeeze her hand, let her soldier on.

‘i-i’ve been having a really hard time,’ she continues, ‘and i didn’t want to burden you with it, because you were already having such a bad year, and hurting so much. for so long it’s just been me and my brain and its momentary downfalls, and i just—i just thought i could get better.’

‘chris—‘

she squeezes your hand, shakes her head. ‘but i’m not. not yet, anyway.’ she takes a big breath, steadies herself, looks at you so clearly. ‘i’m gonna get sober.’

you didn’t know the tension that you were holding in your body around that, because you would  _ never  _ ask her to do that—you know it has to come from her, but also you trust her to know herself, still, even now. ‘okay.’

‘i’ll need your help, sometimes, i think.’

‘always, chris.’

her eyes fill with tears and a little, tiny smile starts to light up her face. ‘yeah?’

‘yeah,’ you say. ’and you can do anything, like, that you put your mind to. so i know you can do it. and i know i can forgive you, and you can get better. we can get better.’

her shoulders relax in relief, she presses her forehead to her shoulder; you touch her jaw.

/

[ _ i know it’s lonely in the dark & this year’s a visitor / & we have to know that faith declines / i’m not all out of mine _ ]

/

50

‘fuck, tobin,’ christen whispers, one of her legs wrapped around your waist as you curl your fingers inside her, find the one spot that always makes her back arch.

‘have you been good enough to come?’ you say—some vestige of what things were like before—unthinking and hot and you’re worried, for a second, falter, but then—

she arches a brow. ‘have i?’

you grin into her mouth, relieved and so turned on. the water from the shower head is hot against your back, and there’s just stretches of warm brown skin for you to touch, smooth and pretty and you’ve missed all of her for last year, her mind and her laugh and her gentleness—but the way she clutches onto you so hard her fingernails dig into your back—you’ve missed this too.

you’re not  _ really _ paying attention to where you are, though, because it’s  _ christen _ , and you can never pay attention to anything when she’s naked and touching you anyway, but you’re in the shower and she’s about to come and she starts to melt into you and then you’re losing your balance, and before you know it you’re scrambling, panicking as you topple out of the tub. you reach for the curtain to steady you, but it just rips off of the pole. before you know it you’re on the floor of the bathroom, sprawled out on top of the shower curtain, and christen is still standing in the shower, her chest heaving.

she’s trying her hardest not to laugh, you  _ know _ , when she rushes to turn the water off and then steps out of the tub quickly.

‘oh my god,’ she says, and the adrenaline is starting to wear off a little. you press your face into the floor and groan and you feel her hand on your back. ‘tobin.’ 

‘i’m fine,’ you say, really try to sound convincing.

you turn your head to meet your gaze and your hip is stinging worse than you’ve ever felt before and your foot hurts, but you really think you mostly are fine.

’is it your back?’

christen sounds genuinely terrified, which you understand, and that alone makes the entire thing funny all of a sudden, because you’re both naked and she was two seconds away from an orgasm and you ripped down an entire shower curtain.

you start to laugh and shake your head no. ‘it’s fine, chris,’ you say, and squeeze her hand. ‘i’m gonna have a bruise on my hip but—‘ a  _ real _ laugh bubbles its way out of your chest— ‘i’m fine.’

she waits a beat before she sits down next to you, right on the curtain, and bursts out laughing. you roll over and sit up, and your laughs taper off a little until you take one look at the already disgusting bruise spreading along your hipbone and start to laugh again.

she kisses you—messy, because you can’t stop laughing—but full of real joy. acute happiness—and it’s easy, to be like this with her. easy to be silly, to delight in the dumb, pointless funny things that happen in life. 

‘i got my girl back,’ you say, and you don’t mean for it to be aloud, or to be so serious.

her laughter quiets and she looks at you carefully—her eyes the clearest, most beautiful green. ‘yeah,’ she says, then again, with the best smile you think you’ve ever seen in your life: ‘yeah.’

you brush your thumb over her shoulder, kiss the skin offered to you. ‘help me up though.’ she nods, laughs again, grasps your hand. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok well here are more songs for fun
> 
> first day of my life / bright eyes  
> girl / the internet  
> light of love / florence + the machine  
> blood bank / bon iver  
> alabama / frank ocean  
> faith / bon iver

**Author's Note:**

> all the little italics are from songs & i'm bored so i'll list them here lol:
> 
> \- (title): a thousand kisses deep / leonard cohen  
> \- beabadoobee / soren  
> \- ivy / frank ocean  
> \- a case of you / joni mitchell  
> \- fruit / abra


End file.
